Hamcules

The mighty Zeus grants Queen Saphirra a son to rescue their nation from the wrath of their ruler, King Amphitryon.

Hercules, being the unwanted, illegitimate, extraordinarily muscular twenty year-old prince he is, falls in love with Hebe, who is supposed to marry Hercules' brother, Iphicles.

So, the King decides to get Hercules killed by sending him off to some mission at which he is to be killed at an ambush.

English speaking people from Egypt ambush Hercules' division, and, with a stroke of luck, Hercules and his BFF are the only ones who remain alive, and instead of killing them, the commander decides to sell them as slaves.

They fight their way through slave-fights and finally reach their freedom, only to be captured again by the evil brother Iphicles. Just as Hercules' BFF is about to be executed, Hercules suddenly comes to sense and belief and asks for help from his daddy.

Meanwhile, there is this wedding talk but all we see is a girl in a white gown being dragged by soldiers.

Hercules rallies the people and defeats his father.

Hercules and Hebe live happily ever after.



This is basically what the movie The Legend of Hercules is about. It has shallow, underdeveloped characters, meaningless plot twists and apparently very universally aware and West-influenced Greeks and Egyptians. Basically, it is a waste of time; unless you want to have some fun and laugh at how Hercules denies the laws of physics.

Maybe because we've been cramming over it for the past week, my friend and I noticed an undeniable similarity between the movie Hercules and Shakespeare's tragedy, Hamlet.

A mean King: check.

An unwanted son who the King wants/tries to kill: check.

A girl over which the whole conflict is based on and who tries to commit suicide: check.

A loyal friend: check.

An angry brother: check.

I'd read an article talking about how all Hollywood movies were made up of variations of the same three plots. Unfortunately, when I now think of Hollywood movies, I think about cliches. And it is only the movies which actually manage to surprise the audience, give them more than what they'd expected when they were asking for the combo menu at the theater, that will be remembered 30 years from now, not some Hollywood cliche.

The main reason for the cliches and the basic plots is to give the audience what they want. The movie producers just want to make the audience feel satisfied; and some don't even care about that-they only care about the box office rating. In Hollywood, children don't die. In Hollywood, most movies end with happy endings. In Hollywood, the hero first seems to fail, but then he prevails and there is triumphant music playing in the background. In Hollywood, killing bad people is OK. In Hollywood, it's all about pleasing the audience. Unfortunately.

The one aspect of Hamlet different from Hercules was the ending. In Hamlet, all of the main characters except Horatio died. In Hercules, Hercules survives (duh, or else how could they make another excuse of a movie to make more money) and, Hebe somehow, miraculously, also survives. They have a child and live happily ever after.

William Hazlitt said,  "other dramatic writers give us very fine versions and paraphrases of nature; but Shakespeare, together with his own comments, gives us the original text, that we may judge for ourselves." Shakespeare gives us life itself on a silver platter. Hollywood gives us a distilled, child-proof, pleasing version of "life". And I would prefer the "original text", no matter how harsh or disturbing it may be, over the pathetic, dumbed down, diluted, twisted amalgamations like Hamcules any time.

Curtain Call

"...the purpose of playing, whose end, both at the first and now, was and is, to hold, as 'twere, the mirror up to nature..." -Hamlet, Act 3, Scene 2.

Why do people write plays? Or operas?

Why do people perform these plays or operas?

Why do people go and watch other people perform these plays or operas?

I think the reason is clearly stated by our most dear Hamlet; because, plays hold a "mirror up to nature", up to us, so that we can see ourselves and watch ourselves from outside - something we don't get to do on a daily base.

And the people who don't like plays or movies or operas or musicals, who find them "boring" or a "waste of time"; they are the people who don't want to "waste time" facing themselves. The spotlight of theater hasn't lit up their souls just yet.

Plays are spectacular slices of life and succulent specimens of human nature. Even if the play is about witches, vengeful spirits or merchants trading money for flesh, we can always find some of ourselves in it. Actually, the context and what you find from yourself in it doesn't really matter, what really matters is if the play can take you into its world and make you believe in witches or spirits from the world beyond. The same also applies to novels and movies.

But what is it that makes theater so different from the plain book or the movie? Why did I wait at -5 degrees Celsius at 9.30 am on a Sunday morning in front of the theater to get seats to Hamlet, a play I've already read -and analyzed- thoroughly? Why did I walk in the pouring rain, coughing and sneezing, to the theater, to see a guy play Hamlet? Why were all those people there, instead of at home, watching the movie?

What makes theater superior to movies and books is the fact that it is live. That's what has always amazed me; that someone, 20 meters down the row, is on the stage, talking to, or singing to lots of people,  creating a pocket-sized universe on that enormous stage. Someone, just like you and me, is up there, doing something called "acting" (how crazy would it sound to a stranger when you told them about how on Planet Earth people got up on stages and pretended to be someone they're not), inviting you, and, if successful, drawing you into their own, little world.

And the splendor! The costumes, the exaggerated actions and expressions, the intoxicating tragedy or comedy... Plain theater can only take it so far, and that's where operas come in. The music, combined with the "live" factor and the splendor, provides the audience with an addictive dose of drama that cannot be obtained anywhere else. I have not seen a scene more epic and glamorous than Don Giovanni's last scene;

Il Commandatore's statue spurs to life, the orchestra screams the D minor chord, the lights fade, the angels of death come onto the stage-Il Commendatore lifts his white, cold arm, and sings "Don Giovanni!"...

So I will see Don Giovanni for the fourth time. And I will go to Hamlet or any other play if I have the chance, even if I'd read it before. And I will be amazed again and again at how those people on the stage perform and manage to envelope the hundreds of people in front of them into their own fictional world, and I will, at some point, forget that I'm watching a play or an opera-and I wouldn't mind it. Because getting out of this cramped up monochromatic world of ours and leaping into Denmark's "prisons" or Don Giovanni's castle every once in a while is not such a bad idea.

Another Day in Paradise

Every time I walk to my Dershane, private teaching institutions in Turkey which prepare students for the university exams, I take the same route. I go down my street, take a right, cross the street, go past the white and graceless cab stand, down all the way to the park, float down into the underpass and surface on the other side of the road, walk straight down, go past the lottery stand, the begging children on the left and Levis on right, turn right at the intersection, get through the huge line of people waiting for the bus to arrive and cross the street, turn left at the corner, being careful not to step on the peddler's goods, go past the little children playing harmonicas and begging, and, voila, I'm there.

My class in Dershane possesses a very wide range of teenagers. There is the girl who lives 20 kilometers away and takes a 1.5 hour long bus ride every day to get there, there is the girl with a constant smile on her face who studies way harder than the others yet still gets low grades, there are the guys in the back, pretending they know it all, but really they don't even know what they're working so hard for. And then there is that girl who can draw beautifully, but she has to learn all these to be able to live a "decent" life. Behind her sits that guy who talks a lot, jumps at every question and thinks he can do anything. I hope he stays that way. And next to them sits the diva of the class; her makeup pretty, her hair combed, her scarf and her shoes matching-she writes down everything on the board with the utmost care in her notebook, with color pens. She thinks she's learning, but she doesn't realize that those colorful notes are not going to get her into college alone. In the front sits the girl with the headscarf. She is nice, funny and hard-working-yet she's been chained down and subdued by the drug some call "religion" at only 17. She wants to be a doctor. And finally, there is the awkward guy, who wears the same thing every day, and is very smart- but his school doesn't care about him. For all of these people, except the exceptionally wealthy ones who can afford getting into a private university (which accept students with lower grades from the entrance test) the university exam is the way out, it's their salvation, it's the only chance they get to turn their lives around and be who they want to be.

Yet, their teachers at school don't know what they're supposed to teach. Their parents don't care about what they do: they only care if the Dershane sends home texts saying their child didn't do his/her homework. They don't have iPad's or iPhone's or computers to do research from or to let off some steam.

That begging child I see every single day on my way to Dershane, always has a book in his hands. He is always reading, even as night time begins to fall and the light starts to fade. What if he had a better family? What if his family had the resources to send him to the best schools in Ankara, get him tutored in playing the violin, and send him to Europe for creative writing workshops? Unfortunately, no matter what is stored behind those dark brown eyes shining with excitement and curiosity, may never be used.

That is what's wrong with the world. Your life is pretty much decided when you're born, according to the conditions you are born to/in.  Not everyone gets an equal shot at making this journey of ours called life, the best one they've ever had. Some manage to change tracks; they take a right at the intersection instead of a left and they meet the most amazing person who knows this celebrity who can get them a job, and at that job discover that they're extraordinarily talented and rise to the top very quickly and build their own companies and BE HAPPY. Some can do this. And the ones who can't, well, they go down the same old gray road, get a decent job, work only to make money, and always dream about what their lives would've been like if they were born into different families. Or if they'd studied harder and had a better math teacher in 10th grade and had gotten into a better college.

So everytime I go to Dershane after coming home from my private school and choosing a bag among the ten to put my Dershane stuff in, charging my iPhone, hearing my parents say "We love you, and good luck, don't stress yourself out", and feeling them hug me just before I leave, and then see those little children on the street begging for money rather than being at school or at home playing with his toys, I lose faith in the human race and this messed up system they've (we've) invented. I wish everyone could have equal opportunities, I wish there was a world where the people with the most money or best connections didn't get what they wanted. But we all know that this is not possible, and ending this blog post saying "I wish everyone could be equal :(" is equivalent to writing a blog post about unicorns and then saying "I wish they really existed".

The least we could do to mend this broken system of ours is to listen and try to help. I'm not saying you shouldn't buy that 100 dollars worth sweater that you don't really need and instead donate that money to some charity. All I'm saying is, listen. Don't Pretend you can't hear them, start to whistle as you cross the street and seem embarrassed to be there. Because if you could just listen, if you could just understand, you could grant "another day in paradise" for many people.

Changing Photographs

Year 1999

Lots of food on the table. The house is decorated with cheesy, shining ornaments soaked in glitter. Smiling faces. Many faces. The little girl at the center, putting up her act, laughing because she knows she should smile when someone stands in front of her with a camera. Her brother is at the back, acting cool, displaying a crooked smile, anxious to get into the Santa Claus suit and surprise his little sister. Who they call "mom" is on the left, with tired eyes but a true smile. She's happy to be there and to have been able to cook the turkey in time for dinner. Her mother is sitting at the head of the table, with blue eyes and a sincere smile. She wishes her husband could be there, and puts her arm around her other, older daughter. She, the aunt of the children, makes sure there is no lipstick on her teeth and cuddles in with her mother. The uncle of the children and his wife are on the sides; they, too, are smiling. They wish their children, who have long left their nests and have started to build their own by themselves, could be there with them, like the old days. The father of the children, with the dark, black mustache is behind the camera; you can't see him, but you know he's there-smiling, and fidgeting with the camera. His mother is sitting next to his wife's mother, with her husband, who has grown old with her. Their eyes which have seen much, much more than anyone at the table glimmer with their small smiles. The two nieces of the grandmother are at the back, hugging each other; sisters, smiling pleasantly, happy to be together.

Year 2013

Lots of food on the table. The house has some ornaments hung up here and there, but you can see that they're out-of-date. Smiling faces. But not a lot of them. The father on the far left hand side, smiling, his black mustache now gone gray, sits next to his wife. She has tired eyes, and is glad she's managed to make everything she'd planned to make. She is smiling, her head cocked to the side, thinking of all those people who aren't there that last night of 2013. The little girl has become a teenager and is spending  new year's eve at home for the last time; she doesn't believe in Santa Claus anymore. She has just set the camera's timer and has raced to her designated spot; she's smiling, but she really wishes her brother could be there. Her brother, now 25, is off in some forgotten little town, serving the army, completing his compulsory army service. Their grandmother, on the mother side, is sitting at the head of the table on her own. Her smile has somewhat faded, she misses her husband and her older daughter who don't have an excuse for not being there, she has lost too much to a disgusting, dire, despairing disease. The grandmother on the father's side isn't there; she's gotten too old to climb the stairs to her son's apartment, and has chosen to spend her 95th new year's eve at home, alone. The uncle and his wife are in another town, with their children and grandchildren. The two nieces of the grandmother are at the back, hugging each other; sisters, smiling pleasantly, happy to be together. Everyone thinks of all the people who aren't there that night, especially the ones without excuses-tears well up in their eyes-they blink them away, because they know you're supposed to smile at the camera...

***

The one thing I don't like about new year's eve, exaggerated by profit-seeking entrepreneurs and foreign traditions, is that you get to- actually, you're forced to- reflect on the previous year; and it may not always hold nice stuff. The photos from these evenings are slices from your life, the perfect snapshot to sum it all up; every 31st of December, we do the same things: the menu is mostly the same, the purpose is always the same, but the people in the pictures change- and disappear, some, forever.  So be happy with what you have now, because you may not be able to find it in next year's photo of new year's eve.

What if?

 

"She woke up at the screeching sound of her alarm clock. She got dressed, had breakfast, and got in her red little Volkswagen. She checked her hair and makeup on the rear view mirror, something she usually wouldn't have done, but today was special. She took her usual route around town, heading for her office, keeping an eye on the digital clock on the dashboard so that she wouldn't be late on this special day. She saw the green traffic light in the distance with only a few seconds remaining, and she knew she had to get that. She increased the throttle, shifted gear, got on the left lane, and whizzed through the intersection just in time. What she didn't see was the swerving small Prius, which just missed the trunk of her car by a fraction of a second. She got to work on time, the elevator was right there, and headed up to the executive floor! She never would've thought this day would come. She knew her hair and makeup were fine, she confidently strode into the meeting room, and they closed the door after she got in."

Cabin pressure-stablizer? Check. Frontal warp engines? Check. Seatbelts? Check. Jumping to light speed, tearing through the fabric of time…

"She woke up at the screeching sound of her alarm clock. She got dressed, had breakfast, and got in her red little Volkswagen. She checked her hair and makeup on the rear view mirror, something she usually wouldn't have done, but today was special. She took her usual route around town, heading for her office, keeping an eye on the digital clock on the dashboard so that she wouldn't be late on this special day. She saw the green traffic light in the distance with only a few seconds remaining, and decided it wasn't worth it. She would get the next one.  She pressed the brakes, shifted gear, and halted at the intersection. Just as she stole a glance at the rear view mirror to make sure her briefcase was on the back seat, a swerving small Prius came out of the intersection, and crashed into her red little Volkswagen. From that moment on, her day was a day-time nightmare. She had to call the insurance company, had to reason with a clearly hungover guy, got to work late, and by the time she had darted up the stairs to the meeting room because the elevator was stuck on the executive floor, she was tired, sweaty, her hair was all messed up, and the meeting had already started. There goes the good first impression, she thought."

Don't you wonder what your life would have been like if you'd took that job offer in Germany? Or if you'd  bought a house on the suburbs rather than one in the city? Or if you'd eaten cereal for breakfast this morning?

Every second, we make decisions. I decide to write this blog post now rather than going to sleep. You decide to read this blog post, rather than dismissing it as the ramblings of  a teenager and going to the kitchen to get dinner. And every single decision we make changes the course of our lives, whether that change is so drastic that you die in the next three seconds, or you just don't see a specific stranger on the street that day. Wouldn't it be awesome if we could trace back the branches of life and take another road to see how our lives would have turned out? If only we had a TARDIS...

Of course, the idea of parallel universes does have its glitches. If a new universe is created with every decision someone makes, then there would be an infinite number of parallel universes, one for each decision one of us -among the 7.134 billion- makes. And, why shouldn't dogs and cats have parallel universes? What's so special about humans that WE get the parallel universes, and the heavens and the gods?

The countless number of movies made and books written on this issue of parallel universes only strengthen the hollow yet unnecessarily widely supported narcissistic set of mind, putting humans on top of every other species, and accepting -knowing- that we are special... somehow. Still, it would be cool to take up my De Lorean for a trip to another layer of time where, 300 million years ago, some curious fish on a planet called "the Earth" decided to remain in water and hadn't migrated onto land to begin life on land as we know it... What if?

Until Stars Become Reindeers

Plastic pine trees are in high demand.

The mall now has snowflakes and pretty little lights and red and green hanging from its roof.

Red sale signs now decorate the storefronts.

And when you look carefully, you can see the blurs on the frosty windows, left there by the little children of the house who had just left the window side to get some hot cocoa, counting the seconds until the first snowfall, all in sweet anticipation.

Today is the first day of December.

For some, it is the end of a whole year and is a chance to wrap things up; correct their mistakes, fulfill their last wishes.

For some, it is a long-awaited time to finally get out of this disaster of a year, start over; forget.

And for some, like us, it is nothing but a month of stress, challenges and friends, thankfully cut short with a "winter break", concluded by, first Christmas, then new year's eve, only to be followed by more work and more stress.

But there is something about the newly constructed Christmas tree still missing some of its ornaments and the hats people are just starting to wear that brings warmness to my heart and fills it with happiness and expectation. I know that all of this fuss is about pushing people to consume more, in the end, only two days have passed since "Black Friday", a day especially devoted to turning people into raged consumerists who will stop at nothing to get that paper shredder which is on 60 % discount (!). Still, something about the "xmas" songs on the radio and the slightly chilly air makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside - now and until the stars hidden behind the gray clouds turn into reindeers. 

Laws for War (?)

Apparently, you can't torture a prisoner of war. There's a law against it. But you can tear off people's legs, kill thousands of young boys who have yet to experience the things life has to offer, break up families, slaughter dreams, wipe out an entire nation and condemn the next generations to constant pain; and for what?

Just a few thousands of hectares of land. Because someone couldn't be satisfied with what they have. Because someone just couldn't help pulling the trigger.

War is brutal. It is the most horrific thing the human kind has invented and it is nothing but an eerie, twisted game soaked in blood.

But, there are the "War and international humanitarian laws" which regulate it, so it's actually all under control!

"Parties to a conflict and members of their armed forces do not have an unlimited choice of methods and means of warfare. It is prohibited to employ weapons or methods of warfare of a nature to cause unnecessary losses or excessive suffering." So you can slaughter the soldiers fighting for people who don't have blue eyes and fine hair, just not A LOT of them so that their deaths become "unnecessary".

 "Captured combatants are entitled to respect for their lives, dignity, personal rights and convictions." So you can't kill a "combatant" you take as a prisoner, but it's perfectly fine to kill thousands out on the field.

Of course, it is better to have some kind of regulation over an act of almost unlimited destruction than none. Still, even the act of forming "laws for war" confirms the need for wars and accepts that it is somewhat necessary. But wait! These laws also "prevent" civilians from dying and surrendered soldiers from being killed! So they're totally useful!

They would be, if everyone obeyed the laws. When people cannot even obey the simple command of halting at the sight of a red light, you cannot expect them to "follow the rules" when they are after the head of the king who "dominates the land of their ancestors". Sure, they impose some kind of power and create pressure on the people who violate them, but they don't make war a regulated act of  "quarrel". It just seems very ironic to establish laws about the most brutal act of humanity which violates uncountable moral laws. The laws are just like a fence the owner of an expensive house has installed around their property; the owners know it won't keep the burglars out, but it just makes them feel better about themselves when their houses get robbed- or when war brakes out and they retreat to their safe-houses on the skirts of the Alps with their copious amounts of cheese and pocketknives.

As you see, no matter how many frames  of "law" and "rights" and "rules" you fasten around war, it does not make it a painting of poppy fields and happy children running about. The frame just keeps the blood from soaking the gallery's floor where the people in power sit and watch other people fight  -and die- for them.